Ironically —— or so it seems to me —— one of the aspects of my sf that I'm most insecure about, and "Galápagos" is no exception, is the actual science. When writing sf, I spend at least half the time fact checking and rechecking and re-rechecking. Though, I should think, if I may be so bold, that if you put any random 100 authors of sf into a room together, and I were one of the bunch, and then evaluate our knowledge of the scientific enterprise, and our general scientific literacy, I'd surely fall into the top tenth percentile. Maybe that's why I'm so insecure about it. Fuck if I know.
Anyway, I'm going to step away from "Galápagos" for a couple of days. I have an interview to do this afternoon, and a number of other things I've been putting off. This evening, Spooky and I will be going to visiting a local writer acquaintance on the East Side for a communal signature-sheet signing gathering sort of thing (the pages are for Joshi's forthcoming Black Wings: New Tales of Lovecraftian Horror, which includes my story, "Pickman's Other Model"). And tomorrow's going to be a day off, because I've not had one since May 8th.
My comp copies of the new Alabaster trade paperback arrived yesterday. I think the book looks great. And you can score a copy for a mere $14.95 (plus s&h).
Last night, I was too tired for much of anything, so after BBQ from United BBQ, we watched the first seven episodes of The X-Files (eps six and seven, "Shadow" and "Ghost in the Machine," are dull as hell, by the way). I didn't get to sleep until a little after three, but then —— fuck you, Monsieur Insomnia —— I slept a full eight hours. Booya! Thank you, Mulder and Scully.
Gods, a mere six days remaining until birthday -5. How bloody weird is that?
Postscript (3:06 p.m.): I only just the minute learned that Stephenie Meyer is a Mormon. Suddenly, it all makes so much more sense.